The Potato Feast
by Scott McCall
Summary: Frodo, Sam and Merry&Pippin have adventures with potatoes and they all have fun and nothing bad ever happens, until it does.


Back in the time before the darkness of Mordor was exposed, Frodo, like the rest of the hobbits, was always happy. The sun was shining on the small town, and Frodo was expecting his good friend Sam to come over and help him bake a pie, as his parents were probably dead and his uncle had adult-onset diabetes so he never had the opportunity to learn to bake. Needless to say, he was looking forward to this day for quite some time, as hobbits liked to eat things high in sugars and drink beer and get fat.

On this particular Tuesday, Frodo was feeling especially excited because he and Merry and Pippin were going to go to the neighbouring town to buy more potatoes for Sam as a surprise, because they were suffering a mild potato famine. "Merry! Pippin! Hurry, come in! Are you hungry? Thirsty?" Frodo asked, his blue eyes piercing his friends.

"No, Frodo, I'm alright," answered Pippin, his arms linked with Merry's. "Are you thirsty, Merry?"

"Yes," he said, and charged inside to drink some hobbit beer.

Frodo laughed as his friend ran past him. "Ok, but hurry up! We have to be quick if we want to get back before Sam comes over to bake with me." Frodo sat down at the table, concerned. Hobbits weren't meant to do things quickly, and making it back in time to meet Sam was a serious concern, even if the town was only twenty minutes away on mule-back. Not to mention, they still had to make a dinner with the potatoes.

After what seemed like an eternity to Frodo, Merry was finally sated and began to skip out the door, towards the mules they would be riding. "Finally," Frodo sighed, staring at Pippin with his frosty gaze, "Why didn't you guys drink before you came? We're running late!"

"We did," slurred Merry. Pippin didn't even care to respond; he just climbed onto his mule and called "Last one out of town's a rotten egg!"

Frodo had a reputation to maintain. He hadn't lost a race in over twenty-five years and so he wasn't about to let this break his winning streak. He leapt onto his mule and whipped it, exclaiming "YIP, YIP!" and dashed into the sun-lit path after his friends.

After about seventeen minutes into the journey, Merry fell of his equestrian, too drunk to continue. This posed a great problem because Pippin didn't want to leave his friend abandoned by the side of the road, ripe for pickpockets or slavers interested in shoe-polishers. They also didn't have any rope to tie him to his mule.

"What if I kept going, while you kept Merry company, Pippin?" Frodo asked, staring intently at the sign that said _500 meters to next town. _

"Ok," said Pippin, hardly bothered. He was already off his mule, weaving a blanket out of tall grass for his fallen comrade, who was snoring gently, a small string of saliva running out of the side of his mouth.

"Ok," repeated Frodo, and off he went.

The town was small and quiet, much like that of Frodo's own. As he strolled in on his mule he felt as if he were a knight in a faraway land, noble, loved and free to do whatever he wanted. He thought to himself what a regal quest he was on, what a noble endeavor for friendship.

He made his way through the small town, riding high on his mule over the cobbled streets, looking for the familiar vendor of Sam's food of choice: potatoes. He was thinking of all the recipes he could use for the dinner that evening, fried, boiled, barbequed, mashed, scalloped, when suddenly -

"Hello there, Frodo!" called the shopkeep, "Looking for some of these?" The fat shopkeep held up a perfect, round, succulent potato. "If you buy as much as you did last time, I'll give you a discount," he continued.

Frodo was beyond words and just sat there on his mule, nodding stupidly as the shopkeeper handed him bag after bag after bag of potatoes. After he paid for his goods – he had been given an excellent discount – he turned back the way he came, though a little slower than before.

As he reached Merry and Pippin, he saw that they had both snuggled beneath the woven grass blanket Pippin had made earlier, in a patch of sun. They were using hedgehogs for pillows. A little less than an hour had passed, which meant that they had little more than three hours to prepare for dinner before Sam came over to prepare dessert. This was plenty of time, but Frodo had his doubts about making a dinner on his own.

He gently dismounted from his steed and walked over to his snoozing friends. "Merry, Pippin" he said, quietly. "Merry," he said again. "Pippin." They were out cold. "Merry! Pippin!" he exclaimed, louder this time. They stirred, but there was still no sign of consciousness. Frodo grew very angry and focussed his steely eyes on the hedgehogs, who ran away in fear. As his friends' heads fell to the ground with a sudden _plop _they woke, confused to find Frodo standing over them looking murderously angry. Merry burped loudly.

Frodo began making his way over to his mule and sassily called over his shoulder, "Are you coming or not?"

Merry and Pippin slowly got up and all three made their way back to Frodo's home in silence, broken only by Merry's hiccups. Frodo was busy thinking what kind of potato to make, and Pippin distracted himself with making another grass blanket.

Upon their arrival, Frodo had decided on making baked potatoes with green and yellow beans and pork with applesauce. Frodo asked Merry and Pippin to help gather some fresh beans from the garden, and promptly began preparing his salted pork for his friend.

Because his parents were probably dead, and he lived with his uncle, he had only cooked for himself a few times, and he always had help. However, he followed the recipe step by step and was satisfied with the results. Merry and Pippin in the meantime were hunting butterflies in the yard, until Frodo asked them to fetch Sam.

Frodo set the table for four and waited patiently for his friends to return, busying himself with folding the napkins into swans, chickens, Canadian geese and the like. He heard his friends arrive and gladly went to answer the door, and escorted them all inside. "You're going to _love_ this, Sam!" he exclaimed, happy with himself. He didn't notice the way Merry and Pippin were entirely distracted by their jar of butterflies.

"Frodo! Are those potatoes?" Sam asked, hypothetically of course, he knew his vegetables.

Frodo answered anyway. "Yes, from the next town over."

Sam sat down quickly and began shovelling the pork, beans and applesauce into his mouth, saving the potatoes for last. He put extra salt, pepper and seasonings, and waited patiently for the butter to melt over his favorite foodstuffs.

Frodo was staring intently at Sam to see his reaction to the potatoes he had slaved over for almost two hours. All he wanted was to hear what a good job he had done. He needed instant gratification for all his work.

Finally, Sam began to gently scoop the potatoes onto his fork, careful not to spill any as he led it towards his gaping mouth. He chanced to look up directly into Frodo's gaze, who was still staring unblinkingly for Sam's reaction, an eerie smile on his face. Over the years he had become used to Frodo's antics, and honestly felt sorry for him. Frodo really had no other friends; Merry and Pippin weren't even paying attention anymore and had run outside to find more butterflies. Sam decided not to question Frodo's newfound obsession with potatoes, thinking it was better not to know.

No sooner had the vegetable touched Sam's tongue did Frodo yell, "HOW DO THEY TASTE, SAM?"

Sam sighed inwardly, "They're the best I've ever tasted, Frodo. You did a good job. Thank you, sir Frodo."

Frodo was visibly pleased with himself, having made his friend so happy. "Did you still want to bake a pie? We could make a potato pie if you want."

Sam thought that was the dumbest idea ever conceived by a sentient being, but knew better than to say so. "Apple pie is always good, Frodo." He had finished his dinner and had begun gathering the dishes and leftovers, as Frodo had already started preparations for potato pie.

"But we've never made potato pie, Sam." Frodo's eyes were hard and frosty.

Sam began to respond, intent on saying that there was a valid reason for that, but he saw that Frodo was beyond listening and instead just nodded and he too stopped listening to whatever Frodo had begun babbling about.

Sam could feel his brain cells imploding, and he glanced at the clock. He had been there for roughly half an hour. He consoled himself, as he knew he wouldn't have to put up with Frodo for much longer. He would soon be by himself in the quiet of his own home.

Frodo, oblivious to Sam's mood, was all too excited, and he began singing about the faraway lands his uncle told him so much about, telling Sam that they should visit all these fantastic places sometime. Sam found himself peeling potatoes hoping he would never have to be alone with Frodo ever again.


End file.
